


the stone inside you still hasn't hit bottom

by seroquel (smallredboy)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Branding, Captivity, Cutting, Gen, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 08:03:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19825942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/seroquel
Summary: In which Aziraphale and Crowley didn't switch, but they still survive their punishments. And yet, Heaven is not letting Aziraphale go that easily.





	the stone inside you still hasn't hit bottom

**Author's Note:**

> for hc-bingo with the square "ritualized pain/injury" and badthingshappenbingo with the square "captivity".
> 
> ive had this au in mind for a while, but i don't think i'm Emotionally Capable of getting more of it out of me. we'll see, though.
> 
> enjoy!

His halo puts him in a chokehold.

He’s not too sure of how they’ve manipulated in such a way, but it strains against his neck, keeps him rigid as two smaller bits of it are around his wrists, his legs the only part of his body that can move. And even then, it’s pretty useless, not able to fling kicks at Gabriel or Michael.

He hadn’t understood when he stepped into the Hellfire, accepting it as the end of his existence, accepting that he would never see Crowley again— he didn’t understand when he stepped in and it licked at his body, but it didn’t burn him out of reality. He was there, he was still there, even as the fire engulfed his entire body. It was only warm, like those human showers. He had hoped they would’ve given up then, that he would’ve been taken out and sent down to Earth— but no. 

“If you won’t die,” Gabriel sneered, “then we’ll have to keep you here. Can’t have a traitor running around.”

And they can’t, so he deals as the way his halo is put on him makes him unable to do anything. No miracles, no gifts, nothing.

“You know,” Michael starts as they knelt down in front of him. “We decided to take a page out of Hell’s book, this one time. With a traitor that’s gone native, I think it is perhaps only fair.”

Aziraphale pants, struggling against his bindings, staring at them in terror. “Michael, please…”

“You know the Demon Crowley’s not having a swell time too, don’t you? They gave him a holy water bath.” They laugh and run their hand down Aziraphale’s side. “He’s either dead or in the same position as you.” They look up at Gabriel. “And we thought we could start a nice ritual for you, to start us off. Gabriel, could you hand me that, ah, dagger?”

“Of course, Michael,” Gabriel says, humming as he hands them a dagger— it’s too sharp. 

Michael hums and grabs it, forcing Aziraphale’s clothes up to reveal his lower back. 

“Michael,” he says, his breath catching in his throat as he looks up at the infinite blinding white above him, no ceiling in sight. “Please, I-I don’t— please be merciful. Please, I’m sorry, I-I won’t—”

Gabriel gives a harsh tug to his hair. “Any promises you can make now don’t matter. You already betrayed us.”

Tears gather in the corners of his eyes, and he draws in a shaky breath. The blade presses by his waist and a terrified sob escapes his mouth. “Michael,” he pleads, voice nearly inaudible.

“Shush,” Michael says.

He screams, tears sliding down his cheeks as aquamarine blood dribbles down.

It’s a straight line. Gabriel keeps his hands on Aziraphale’s sides, nails digging in, keeping him in place. Then, Michael pulls the blade out of his flesh and makes a horizontal line. He cries out in pain, struggling the little bit he can. “Please!” he begs. “Please, s-stop it! Stop it!”

Michael doesn’t listen to him. There’s another vertical line, and Aziraphale’s lightheaded and nauseous and dizzy. He coughs out blood, his hands shaking against his bindings. After, Michael slides the blade back to the start of the line, makes a crude motion that seems like a semi-circle, and then a diagonal line.

Two diagonal lines. A horizontal line in between them. A vertical line. A vertical line with a horizontal one on top. A circle. Vertical, semi-circle, diagonal.

By the end of it there’s a tiny pool of aquamarine around Aziraphale’s legs, contrasting with the rest of Heaven, and he is drooling aquamarine as well, his entire body tight with pain. He’s too lightheaded to even think about what they were making sure to mark into him, about how he knows it’s a word but among the pain he can’t quite make it out.

“There,” Michael says simply, standing up and looking at Gabriel. “How does it look?”

Gabriel hums, shrugs. “We have to make sure it looks better.”

“Tomorrow and tomorrow and so forth, we can make sure it looks better,” they reply.

“A ritual. She has always liked those.” He leans down and touches the fresh cuts, aquamarine coating his fingers and making Aziraphale let out a shrill noise of pain, pulsing with the sting of the wounds being pressed against. “At least it does look pretty painful.”

“Mm.” Michael shifts their weight. “Can you make a guess to what we branded you with, Azira-fail?”

He pants out and keeps staring at the ceiling or lack thereof, his mouth all water-y.

“Answer,” Gabriel tells him.

He gasps out when he presses against his wounds again, harder thsi time around. “I d-don’t know, I don’t— I don’t know, Michael,” he croaks out.

Gabriel huffs and pulls his hand away.

“It says TRAITOR,” Michael informs him. “And we’ll make sure anyone can read it next time.”

He whimpers. “Michael,” he says, only a string of his voice left. He doesn’t think he can deal with this happening every day for the rest of his existence. 

“Shut up,” they say, grabbing him by the halo around his throat, dragging him through the blinding white floors. He doesn’t fight, he doesn’t protest.

Gabriel snaps his fingers and the floor is cleaned right off of aquamarine blood.


End file.
